“Well, then, he’d better not say much more about being good.”
“He’d better not say much about it, only when it’s necessary, but I hope he’ll be just as good as he knows how.”
“An’ be laughed at, an’ screwed round, an’ hung up?” queried Maybee, with wide-open eyes.
“I am sorry the boys were so unkind, but it is better to bear it than to do wrong. I don’t really think they meant to hurt you.”
“It hurts ’nough to be scairt, and poked fun at, I think.”
“Yes; but whose little servants are you trying to be? Who tells you to be brave and honest and truthful?”
“Jesus,” said Tod, softly.
“Well, once, when papa was a little boy,”—how eagerly the four little ears listened!—“he went a long journey, away up into Vermont, with his father and mother, Grandma Smith, you know. They missed their way one night, and had to sleep in a log cabin, with only dry bread and cold johnny-cake for supper. The little boy looked pretty sober; there wasn’t much johnny-cake, and dry bread he didn’t fancy at all. Their host, who had given them the best he had, said, possibly, by going a quarter of a mile, he could get the boy a drink of milk. Theddy’s eyes began to shine; but he happened to look around, and there was mamma eating her dry bread without a drop of tea or coffee to moisten it. ‘I can eat dry bread too, if my mamma does,’ he said, bravely, putting away the johnny-cake, and taking the dryest crust on the plate.”
“Oh, wasn’t he nice!” cried Tod, clapping his hands.
“I mos’ know my papa would have done perzactly so, only he wasn’t there,” remarked Maybee.